tagNovels and NovellasPolitics Ch. 04

Politics Ch. 04

byhal_tee©

Chapter 4: Resisting temptation

The tension between Erika and Alistair had been palpable throughout the flight. Thomas had tried to ignore it, but Sally's constant nudges in his ribs and her darting eyes in their direction made that impossible. Even the taxi ride to the Belfast City Hall had been awkward, so much so it had been a relief when Alistair and Erika separated to attend to individual matters that somehow had mysteriously appeared from nowhere.

"What the hell is all that about?" Thomas asked, as he tugged Sally's arm, pulling her to one side.

"They've had an argument," the redhead confided. "That meeting he had with Brian Sterling yesterday? He's arranged a follow up for early afternoon."

"What? He can't! Why?"

Sally shrugged her shoulders. "I've no idea. It took me some manoeuvring to get him on a return flight, I can tell you. It means he'll miss the press lunch afterwards."

"You're kidding?"

Sally raised her eyebrows. "Unfortunately not this time. He wants you and I to handle it."

"He hasn't told me."

"No, well, with Erika being so pissed with him, he probably didn't want to mention it again in front of her."

Thomas nodded, glancing around at the rapidly filling hall. He and Sally wouldn't have their privacy for much longer. "Erika's not returning with him?"

"Apparently not. She wanted to, but he asked her to 'take care' of things here, as if you and I couldn't do that."

"Interesting," mused Thomas, pulling her further into the corner so they couldn't be overheard. "D'you think this has something to do with their swinging lifestyle?"

"Get you!" Sally joked, poking him in the ribs with her elbows. "Been thinking about that, have we?"

Despite himself, Thomas found himself blushing. "Don't be silly."

"Silly?" she asked, those big eyes flashing at him. There was something really sexy about his innocence. God, the stories she could tell him about a swinging lifestyle. If he was blushing now...

She temporarily dismissed the thought and returned to the subject. "Listen, Thomas, I've done a little digging..."

"And?"

"This Brian Sterling. He's a psychiatrist."

The two stood in silence, staring at one another. Sally raised her eyebrows.

"What?" Thomas eventually asked, the look in his eyes betraying his bemusement. "You think the Leader of the Conservative Party is seeing a psychiatrist?"

The redhead burst out laughing. "Got ya! No, you fool. Why the hell would he need a shrink? This Sterling guy is the Senior Partner in the leading practice in London. I'd say we're talking about a pretty big donation, wouldn't you?"

"Maybe," Thomas mused. "But that still doesn't explain why he doesn't want Erika to accompany him."

***

What was it that Erika had suggested before she left?

Wear a dress. Men like women in dresses—something short, but not too short. And show off that fabulous cleavage of yours.

It would work. She knew that from the way Guus Kessen had looked at her during the odd function she'd attended with Thomas. If the lecherous old bastard hadn't been so important to Thomas, she would have told him where to go. In the circumstances, that would have been disastrous!

Especially as her boyfriend had told her he'd secured the businessman's support for Alistair Brinkley-Jones. What a coincidence that Erika knew him, too. Or perhaps that was how the blonde woman had met him? It didn't really matter. What was important was that Erika had somehow secured his interest as a potential backer and she had to make the most of that.

With Kessen's roving eye, that shouldn't be too difficult, should it?

She hated men who made their lustful intentions so obvious. Especially when they did so openly, and in front of her boyfriend, too. Thomas had laughed when she'd complained. He's harmless enough.

Well, harmless he may be, but she'd found the way his eyes undressed her to be unforgivable. Wasn't it ironic that she'd now use her sexuality to get what she wanted? Disguise her dislike for the overweight businessman. Flirt with him a little. Laugh at his jokes. Men liked that, didn't they? They were such uncomplicated creatures, so easy to read.

Erika had been right. A dress was required. Her red sundress, in fact. It was short enough to show off her long, dark brown legs to perfection. And low cut enough to have him drooling over her tits. He'd be putty in her hands!

Dropping her thin robe to the floor, she surveyed her naked body in the full-length bedroom mirror. Her hands cupped her tits, a surge of excitement consuming her. Here you are, Mr. Kessen, she laughed to herself, want to suck on these and then give me thirty thousand pounds?

Her nipples grew hard. Could she really be on the verge of clinching a deal for her dream? She knew she could make the business work, make it profitable. She'd make Kessen see that, too. It was such a shame that Thomas was in Belfast. He could have told her the best way to handle the Dutchman.

She let out a delicious little giggle as she pulled on the skimpy red thong and reached for her dress. If the business plan didn't convince the millionaire, her outfit would! A flagrant display of sexuality had always worked at home in Brazil. It had snared her many a man in her teenage days, most of them married, too. They were always the best.

They knew how to make love; how to treat a woman.

Those days were behind her, of course. She was a faithful girl now. Thomas was her true love. But she still knew how to manipulate a man...

Slipping into the little red number, she checked herself in the mirror again. Her breasts were practically exploding over the top. Thank goodness she didn't need a bra. God, she was so aroused at the thought of what she was about to do, she might even let the old bastard suck her tits, just as a thank you. Her nipples nudged the material at the thought.

She smoothed her sundress across her body, loving the way her long legs flowed out of the thigh high skirt. The Dutchman's eyes would pop out!

Wish me luck, she murmured to her reflection.

***

With the general public crowding into the stately Belfast hall, surrounded by the lobby of reporters to their left, and TV cameras to the right, it was almost impossible to fit anyone else into the impressive room.

The three politicians exchanged small talk with one another on the large stage, all smiles for the benefit of anyone who was watching. But Alistair could see the look of nervous excitement in Collinson and Blair's eyes. He could feel the tension, too, as the claustrophobic atmosphere built.

The idol of Northern Ireland introduced himself to the three men moments before the debate was due to start. Ronan P. O'Mara was a silver haired fifty-year-old, sporting what was now his trademark perfectly groomed handlebar moustache. If it wasn't for the colourful bow tie adorned with small Mickey Mouse figures, Alistair might have made the mistake of taking him seriously.

"Well, gentlemen, I want a good clean fight," the Irishman began, smiling at the audience in front of him as he led them to their chairs and immediately opened the debate. The way he guffawed and winked at both the TV cameras and the general public gave the impression it was a pre-rehearsed line.

Things started slowly. O'Mara told everyone he'd give them a minute after each question to make their point, and then allowed both Collinson and Blair around five minutes each to respond to the most innocuous question of the many selected from his late night show.

"And you, Alistair," he smiled, turning at last to Brinkley-Jones. "What's your view?"

"Heck, Ronan, I don't know," the black politician joked. As expected, the comment got the audience's attention. Something needed to after the dull start. "It's been so long, I can't remember the question."

Thomas nudged Sally at the back of the hall as the roar of laughter went up. This was the perfect start. He knew this format was made for his boss, despite Alistair's doubts yesterday. Satisfied with the opening, he visibly relaxed as the debate continued. With each witty yet constructive reply, the Conservative Party leader quickly established himself as the people's favourite.

"You were right yesterday," Sally whispered into Thomas's ear. "The more the public gets to see Brinkley-Jones the person, the better we're going to do."

"Have you ever known me not be right?" he joked back.

Sally batted her eyelashes. "You're my hero!"

Thomas shrugged his shoulders. "I know."

They burst into laughter, leaning against each other as their raised eyebrows told the other to cool it. People were glancing in their direction.

"He's good," Sally whispered, as another round of applause rang out.

"Outstanding," Thomas replied, feeling more than a little smug. "Did you just hear that answer on MP expenses, after George Blair fumbled his way through it? I'm telling you, Sally, convincing him to come here was a brainwave."

"As I said," she smiled, "you're my hero. Ever thought of wearing your underpants outside your trousers?"

Thomas grinned back at her. "What underpants?"

The redhead wasn't fazed. "I know what you mean, I go commando, too. Want to check?" As he momentarily paused, she let out that little girl laugh of hers. She wore a high-waisted pencil skirt and blouse. Thomas had found himself staring at her rounded buttocks more than a few times, searching for panty lines he never found. Was she telling the truth? "Got ya," she whispered, shooting him a child-like grin.

When he pulled a face, her glossy, red lips blew him a kiss. His cock reacted. Steady boy, he told himself. She's married, and you have a girlfriend.

***

Katie Nichols found herself smiling as she watched the debate. Having a television set in the corner of each partner's room occasionally had its benefits. This was one of those. So was the half hour break before her next appointment, but that time was nearly up.

Was this really the nervous man who'd been with her yesterday? Who'd been so insistent that he saw her again today? She wanted that, too, of course. Yes, she wanted to help him, but it was more than that. A fatal attraction, perhaps? She hadn't been able to get the politician out of her mind. Nor the thoughts of his black cock! What would it look like? How big would it be? How would he feel in her mouth? What would his cum taste like?

She'd imagined him while she'd masturbated last night. Fantasised about his cock. Not just in her mouth, but fucking her. Pounding her.

Oh, God!

The clock on the wall above the couch told her she had five minutes. In her heightened state, it was enough. Her right hand dropped down between her thighs, pushing the loose skirt up her legs and working its way inside her panties. Oh fuck, yes! She so needed this.

Glancing across at her closed door, she rubbed her middle finger up and down her already wet lips. Her breath caught as the moment overtook her. She loved that first touch, caressing her clit, feeling her wet juices. She always thought of a man's head between her thighs at moments like this.

It was Alistair's head.

She widened her legs and planted her feet firmly on the ground, giving herself leverage as she lifted her ass and felt her clit respond. That's it! There... right there...

When she jammed a finger inside her sweet pussy, she felt her orgasm begin to swirl. A second finger and it was there. She rammed them inside her. Except it wasn't her fingers spreading her open. It was a thick, black cock.

Oh, fuck... oh fuck oh fuck...

***

The ease with which Alistair was handling both the questions and his opponents kept him ahead of the game without needing to break sweat.

Unable to take advantage of their sharp witted opponent, Collinson and Blair had tried to freeze him out by turning the attack on each other. But Brinkley-Jones turned that to his advantage, too. He switched personas to become the statesman, interceding now and again to offer a more pragmatic view than the aggressive diatribe spouted by the others.

"A masterclass," Sally whispered.

Thomas nodded happily. Alistair was racking up the brownie points, both with the watching audience in the crowded hall and also on television.

The economy, elaborate health care schemes, MP expenses, petrol taxes, state pensions, back-to-work initiatives were all raised. After the first two protagonists fiercely debated their points, the Conservative Leader stepped in and, with a few well-chosen words, brought yet another round of applause from the majority of the locals.

If this didn't boost their poll ratings, nothing would.

Thomas could only watch in heaving admiration. Despite all the rumours of George Blair's shady dealings in the past, there was no doubt he had a strong reputation as a public speaker, yet his boss was tying even the loquacious Labour Leader in knots. It was poetry in motion...

"Wait a minute," Sally whispered as a thought occurred to her. "We were pretty lucky that Alistair is the last to answer questions. Don't they usually mix it up so that no one has an advantage?"

"Usually," Thomas answered with a grin.

The redhead stared at him for a moment, and then realisation dawned. "You didn't..."

He nodded, pushing a hand through his farmer boy hair. "I've done a few deals with Ronan in my time. A few crates of champagne are on their way to his home even right now. Untraceable, of course."

Her wide eyes grinned at him. Well, well, she getting to know more about Thomas Kincaid the longer they spent together. There really was something about him that appealed, a sexual frisson that gave her goose bumps at times. It was such a shame that he was so in love with Becky. But then again, she liked a challenge...

The summing up session offered one more opportunity to leave a lasting impression. Collinson wasted his chance with a rambling portrayal of everything the Liberal Party believed in. All good stuff, but delivered so flatly that he was close to being a cure for insomnia.

George Blair performed much better. With only an audience to face rather than two real life opponents, he found his usual eloquent style to explain how the future would be safer with another term for Labour. The Liberals—they weren't a serious alternative! The Tories—far too inexperienced for such uncertain times! Labour? The perfect combination of experience and good judgement that the country was crying out for!

"And you, Mr. Brinkley-Jones," Ronan P. O'Mara smiled, adjusting his bow tie as he turned to the Conservative politician on his left. "You've heard what your two fellow leader's have had to say. Impressive stuff, too. What thought would you like to leave us with?"

"Yes," Alistair lied, "impressive rhetoric from both my colleagues. "But good people of Northern Ireland, I've explained throughout the evening what I believe in. Let me tell you what I don't believe in."

He smiled at Collinson and then at Blair as he rose from his seat. Stepping forward, the people in the front row were so close they could almost reach out and touch him. That gave him an idea.

"An interesting approach," O'Mara quipped with another guffaw, smoothing his silver hair as he showed his teeth to the camera.

"It is," Brinkley-Jones agreed with a friendly smile, stepping down from the small platform and wandering up the small aisle in the middle of the audience. "But it's important, too. Because what I don't believe in..." he began

Sally nudged Thomas. "What's he doing? This isn't in the script!"

"It's perfect," he instantly responded, the admiration evident in his eyes as he stared across at the black politician. "Perfect! He's got them in the palm of his hand. Now just make it good!"

"What I don't believe in is the current Government's approach of doing nothing when the bottom drops out of the economy and the good folks of Northern Ireland, who've worked so hard all their lives, are looking for guidance."

The spontaneous burst of applause drowned out his second point, so he eased back and allowed it to die down.

"No, sir," he continued. "I believe in backing the good people of this country. I believe in supporting the people of Northern Ireland. I believe in creating opportunities for the people throughout Great Britain! That's what I believe..."

The applause erupted, just as if the audience were reacting to their own script.

"The Government haven't done that," he continued. "Let me ask you a question," he said, turning around three-sixty degrees in an instant. "Whose fault is it we're in the current economic mess?"

Shouts of 'Labour' echoed around the room.

"And have you heard anything from George Blair today that makes you think they'll do any better going forward?"

"Noooo..." came the concerted cry.

"Have you heard anything from Paul Collinson that gives you comfort?"

"Noooo..."

"And neither have I!" he said, arms held out wide. "Strange, don't you think?"

He paused again to allow the ironic laughter to subside.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I've set out today my approach for the future. My way! The Conservative way." Banging his fist into his palm at, he purposely strode back to his seat, but turned to face the audience before he sat. "It's the best way. It's the only way! Ladies and gentlemen, vote Conservative!"

With an extravagant bow, he took the applause as just about every person in the room rose to their feet.

Thomas glanced at Sally. Her beam was as wide as his. In some ways, it was a cringe-worthy finish, full of platitudes with little substance. But it was just what this audience wanted to hear. And if the television audience felt the same, they were back on track. More than back, they'd be ahead of the game.

The press lunch would provide the ideal opportunity to capitalise on the goodwill. It was just unfortunate that Alistair no longer planned to attend.

***

The overweight Dutchman stepped to one side to usher the Brazilian beauty into his impressive office. Bookcases lined the four walls, and his imposing mahogany desk sat centrally, a chair either side. The room was curiously bare otherwise, increasing the feeling of space.

"Thanks, Marjorie," he half-smiled at his departing receptionist, turning to run his eyes over the sexy apparition in front of him. From the lascivious look on his face, it seemed her choice of dress was perfect for the occasion.

"Rebecca!" he said in that clipped Dutch accent. He resting his thick hands on her bare shoulders as he planted a kiss on both her cheeks. "Such a pleasure. Please, have a seat."

She almost asked him to call her Becky, but some instinct stopped her. Keeping it at Rebecca somehow kept a distance between them. With his curly, black hair and bright smile, he looked more impressive than she remembered. And he looked immaculate in the dark blue suit and tie, and the crisp white shirt. Only the bead of sweat on his forehead spoilt the image.

"Mr. Kessen," she softly said, flashing him a beaming smile, catching his eyes homing in on her cleavage as she lowered herself into the black chair on the opposite side of the desk to his.

"Guus," he murmured, almost waddling around the heavy desk to his seat. "Please call me Guus. How good it is to see you again after all this time."

"You, too," the young beauty responded, keeping her eyes firmly on his. Be confident and act confident! It's only thirty thou, after all.

"Coffee or chilled water?" he asked, indicating the tray on the right hand side of his desk.

"Water, please... thank you," she answered, her hand flicking her dark, wavy hair back over one shoulder. "So, how are you?"

"I'm very well," his pinprick eyes regarding her fondly. He poured a glass and handing it over to her before speaking further. "Prospering nicely, in fact. And I've just concluded an arrangement set up by that boyfriend of yours. I think that pretty soon we'll have Alistair Brinkley-Jones as the next Prime Minister, and his delightful girlfriend supporting him."

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